SUBMARINE CHASER _944_
A few months before, the craft on which Dave now found himself had
been the pride of a wealthy New York man, and had seldom performed a
more hazardous exploit than to bear its owner up and down the Hudson
River between a palatial home and the city. To-day, shorn of gilt and
draperies, made over, above deck and below, to fit her for her new
requirements, it is doubtful if her former owner would have recognized
her had he seen her lying beside a stone dock in the Brooklyn Navy
Yard. The immaculate white of her hull had disappeared under coats of
lead-gray, and the same dull hue covered all superstructure, masts,
small boats, and standing gear. Even the canvas jackets that covered
the bow and stern guns and the lookout cage on the foremast were
gray. A deck-house had been erected abaft the mainmast, while atop
the wheel-house a bridge now stretched from side to side, a thing of
pipe-iron and canvas. If one looked carefully over the bow one could
just make out under the new paint the yacht’s former name, _Meteor_;
but further back, in big black letters and numerals, was the legend: S
C _944_.
The _944_ was a hundred and twenty-two feet over all, and had a beam
and a draught that, while conducive to speed, had not been figured
with deep sea voyaging in mind. Her twin oil-burning engines could
send her along at a twenty-mile clip. She carried a complement of
two commissioned officers and twenty-six enlisted men, most of whom,
from captain down to mess attendant, were well under thirty. In fact,
Lieutenant Cowan was but twenty-five, and the _944_ was his first
command; and his junior and executive officer, Ensign Hyatt, was still
younger by two years. Even the engineering head, a non-commissioned
officer holding the rating of chief machinist’s mate, was well on the
under side of thirty. So, it will be seen, on the _944_ enthusiasm took
the place of hard experience.
But of enthusiasm there was plenty, as Dave discovered that first
evening aboard. By that time they were somewhere in the broad waters
of the Sound, while behind them trailed three other chasers. The
sweltering heat of the August day had given way to the fresh coolness
of night, and a little southeast breeze, straight from the twinkling
lights of the distant shore, played a soft tune in the aerial that
stretched between the short masts. Dave had eaten his first “chow”
on board――had, in a fashion, learned the ropes――and was now on
speaking terms with most of the crew. They were, he thought, a nice
lot, and he was already looking on the _944_ as the Pride of the
Navy, and congratulating himself on not having been relegated to
the _Pennsylvania_ or _Arizona_! And perhaps he had some excuse for
self-gratulation, for on a boat of the chaser size officers and men
are thrown nearer together than on the big ships, and while there is
never any letting down of the bars separating ward room from fo’c’sle,
the conditions of living make for a closer intimacy and a greater
esprit de corps. Dave’s watch was below that evening, and he swung his
legs from his bunk in the little fo’c’sle and listened to the chatter
of the others, the swish of water along the side, and the steady hum
of the engines. The port watch were bewailing the fate that had kept
them on the wrong side of the “pond” until now. “Dutchy,” who was
a big two-fisted Dane, with a long body and short stumps of legs,
lugubriously predicted in his slow and careful manner, that the war
would be all over before they got across. Followed much speculating as
to their destination. Mallory, second class radio man, held for Dover.
Kennedy, gun pointer, said Bordeaux, having already made one trip to
that port on an armed cargo boat. Pete Rooney favored Queenstown,
principally, perhaps, because he had a hankering to set foot on the
sod of his forebears. Todd, master-at-arms, third class, and British
in everything save birth, would have it Plymouth. And some one else
suggested Nantes. Dave was about the only one there who had no theory
on the subject. He didn’t much care where they dropped anchor so long
as it was “over there.” Every one seemed agreed on one thing, at all
events, which was that it needed only their presence in French or
British waters to bring the submarine menace to a speedy end, and Dave
found himself confronted by a mental vision of Admiral Sims standing
on the tip end of Ireland, shading his eyes and searching the horizon
impatiently for sight of the _944_!
Later, Dave and Pete climbed up and made their way along the dark deck
to the lee of the after-house. There, with the hulk of the three-inch
gun black before them, and the light of the next chaser in line swaying
astern, they became better acquainted. Fisher’s Island dropped away to
port, and the _944_ began to dip and roll, and presently they went back
to the fo’c’sle and turned in.
Dave stood morning watch, and was on deck when the first light of day
came up over the eastern edge of the world. The _944_ was some fifty
miles east of Cape Cod, and as the dawn brightened he saw that the
four chasers had become four times four, and that a big gray cruiser,
four-stacked, and bristling with eight-inch and six-inch guns, was
hovering to southward. Most of the chasers were of one class, boats
built for their work, capable and speedy looking 110-footers, but here
and there a converted yacht, generally similar to the _944_, lent
variety. Signals fluttered from the flagship, and were answered, and
by the time the first rays of the sun were leveled along the ocean the
flotilla of tiny adventurers had formed in a hollow square formation,
and, with the big cruiser leading, were tossing the foam from their
bows. All that day they steamed eastward over a summer sea, for all the
world like a lot of little gray ducklings following a mother duck, and
at night, with only stern lights showing dimly, they kept their places
and dropped the miles steadily behind them.
On every craft lookouts watched from deck and cage, for while never
yet had a hostile periscope poked itself above those waters, there was
no knowing when such a thing might happen. Dave had his first trick in
the foretop cage the second day out. He toed the ratlines and squirmed
into the little gray canvas cask that was barely big enough to hold
him. Sitting erect, his head just topped the rim. Twelve feet below
was the flying bridge in front and the big, squatty funnel behind. The
breeze sang in his ears and made elfin music in the aerial wires. It
was rather jolly up there at first, but after awhile the sunlight hurt
his eyes and he began to weary of the ceaseless swing of his perch as
the short mast canted from side to side. The motion wasn’t as soothing
as that of a hammock. Watching the other chasers and the big cruiser
grew monotonous, and searching the empty ocean for enemy periscopes was
horribly idle. It was an event when he could report: “Smoke two points
off the port bow, sir,” or “Sail dead ahead.” He didn’t exactly wish
for a submarine, perhaps, but he came near it toward the last of his
trick. He had two hours of it up there, and then slid down to make way
for his relief.
Life those first two days was pleasant enough. He found his place and
learned his duties, and became known to the rest of “the bunch” as
“The Kid,” which title, since he was the youngest member of the crew,
he was fairly entitled to. Pete Rooney figuratively adopted him, and
as Pete was a popular and respected person, that fact was held to be
in his favor. Chuck Morgan grouched, and gloomed at him, but Chuck was
in the starboard watch, and they met not so frequently as they would
have otherwise. The food was excellent, and the cook a wonder, and as
long as the chaser behaved herself meals were jolly occasions. They
had three days of perfect weather, with a light easterly breeze and a
smooth sea, and then things happened.
Some time in the early morning of the fourth day Dave awoke from his
dreams to find himself rolling from one side to the other of his bunk,
and in danger of leaving it completely. The little boat was full of
whines and creakings, while outside a northeast gale was howling
loudly. The _944_ soon showed her shortcomings as a rough weather
craft, for her narrow beam and light draught, while excellent for the
purpose of pursuing submarines and eluding torpedoes, made her easy
prey for a gale. Mess tables were of no use that morning, and even the
Old Man and the luff ate breakfast with one hand and clung to something
stable with the other. By that time the _944_ was thrusting her sharp,
arching bow right into the waves, and the big seas were roaring back
across her deck. They donned their life-vests and stretched the
lifelines, but even then getting from one end of the boat to the
other was a slow and risky business. One by one the companion craft
disappeared from vision in the murk. The gale increased in fury that
night, and after a wave had smashed in the wheel house as though it had
been cardboard, the _944_ was swung about, tail to the storm, and went
plunging and rolling south-westward.
The next day found them fighting hard. Portholes had been smashed
and the lower deck was flooded half the time. Somewhere the seams
had opened, and the hold fairly gurgled. The wireless went when the
dynamo was flooded, and with that they lost their last touch with the
flagship. On deck everything movable that had not been lashed tight had
gone by the board, and much that still stood was broken or twisted.
They managed to keep the water from the engine room only by pumping
ceaselessly, and Dave took his turn with the others at standing almost
waistdeep in water and clearing waste and débris from the top of the
pump to keep it from clogging. Following seas climbed over the stern
and threatened to make an end of the little craft. The water poured
down the wardroom stairs in cataracts, and clothes, shoes, books, and
papers floated about there in wild confusion. The _944_ carried two
small boats, which were lashed in chocks amidships. These stood the
pounding until, in the middle of the morning watch of the sixth day
out, one of them broke loose and went banging to the rail.
Dave was one of those hurried to the rescue. Wrestling with a
twelve-foot boat on a wet, slippery deck that stood at all angles, and
under the hammering of a sixty-mile gale and giant seas, is man’s work,
and so the half-dozen sailors found it. But they kept at it, holding
tight when a wave thundered down on them, and then working like Trojans
before the next, and they at last got the boat back in place, and were
securing it with new lashings, when a warning cry sent them groping for
holds. The sea that came aboard over the starboard stern looked to
Dave, in the faint light of a single lantern, as high as a house. He
didn’t expect to survive it himself, and didn’t expect the _944_ to. He
took a strangle hold on the lifeline, crouched, and set his teeth.
Then he was down, with tons of water atop him, and his hold on the rope
was torn away, and, choking and smothering, he was rolling helplessly
across the canting deck. He tried to call out, but got only a mouthful
of water for his pains, felt horribly frightened, and made frantic
grasps with his hands.
After what seemed a very long time he found himself face down on the
deck, with one hand clasped painfully about a boat davit and the lower
half of his body suspended sickeningly over a void. He had no breath
with which to call for aid, and scant chance in any case, for, with a
crash that staggered the chaser, another seething cliff of water struck
the counter and hurled itself forward. Dave heard a strangled cry in
the darkness above the confusion of sound, and then, with a silent
prayer for mercy, he flattened himself to the planks, felt the boat
reel wildly, and knew that, despite his clasp on the davit, he must go
over the side when that weight of water struck him.
There was a brief moment of suspense, during which Dave’s thoughts
raced at lightning speed, and then, with the noise of Niagara, the
solid wall of water struck the stern house and came leaping over and
past with wild, resistless fury. Dave’s last gasp of breath was driven
from his lungs under the impact, his straining fingers were torn loose,
and, in a roaring flood, he went, turning over and over, into the
maelstrom of the seas.